Page 81 of The Lineman

On Elliot.

It had been two days since he’d left, driving out ahead of the storm before it closed interstates and grounded flights across the region. And now, Hurricane Beatrice had slammed her purse against the Florida Panhandle like some spurned lover bent on vengeance, tearing her way up into Georgia.

I had no idea where he was, if he was safe, if he was caught in the worst of it.

He’d texted me late last night—Long day. Heading out at first light. Be good—but nothing since then.

I told myself that was normal.

He was probably too busy to check his phone.

He’d get in touch when he could.

But the silence gnawed at me.

It was stupid, how much I missed him already.

We’d only known each other a couple of weeks.

Hell, we hadn’t even defined whatever this was. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the way he’d looked at me that last night, his tough exterior cracking just enough for me to see something real underneath.

About the way he’d asked me if I’d wait.

I had meant it when I said yes.

But I knew we were getting ahead of ourselves.

We needed to slow down.

I’d done this all before—let myself fall too fast, let myself want too much—and itneverended well.

And Elliot wasn’t the type to settle down, was he?

He lived his life on the move, going wherever he was needed, whenever he was needed.

And I was, well, me.

I had a steady job, a life built around routines and predictability. I was comfortable, teaching my students, grading papers, going for runs in the morning before school.

Elliot was a storm in his own way, unpredictable and untethered. He was a volatile influence, one diametrically opposed to the stability I craved.

So why did it feel like I’d been waiting for him to crash into my life?

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I needed to get my shit together. I was sitting in the middle of my own damn class, spacing out like some lovesick idiot.

I forced my attention back to the room, my eyes scanning the students, making sure they were actually working. Most of them were. A few whispered back and forth, trying to keep their conversations low. A couple were just staring at their books, likely wishing the words would rearrange themselves into something interesting.

Then I noticed a girl—Olivia—watching me with a curious expression and her hand in the air, the other hand bracing her arm as though she lifted a thousand-pound dumbbell.

“Uh . . . Mr. Albert?” she asked hesitantly.

Shit. Had she been talking to me? What time was it? Were we still in class?

I straightened, setting my pen down. “Yeah, um, yes?”

She gave me a cautious smile, as though she wasn’t sure if she was about to get into trouble. “I was just wondering if you were okay. You looked kinda . . . out of it.”

I blinked.

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